


gathering swallows, or: little to do about a pumpkin coffee

by Waywarder



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Autumn, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Pining, The inherent melancholy of pumpkin spice lattes, crowley is soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26564725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: In which a pumpkin spice latte is never just a pumpkin spice latte.Title from John Keat's "To Autumn."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 61





	gathering swallows, or: little to do about a pumpkin coffee

The Earth’s air is finally something close to crisp and cool, and Crowley sits in the Bentley outside of the bookshop, clutching some bullshit pumpkin coffee in his sweaty, sticky Hell-grip.

It won’t change anything. And that’s okay, right? Nothing has to change. It’s good. Everything is good. Friendship with Aziraphale is the best thing about him and sometimes friends bring one another dumb, floofy, ridiculous coffee drinks topped with a truly obscene amount of whipped cream and little nutmeg sprinkles. It’s the kind of drink you should only ever order for someone else, because, fuck, what an embarrassing nonsense-thing it is. _No, this is for my friend. I’m cool._

Crowley sucks in a breath. It is decidedly undemonic to have a panic attack over fucking pumpkin coffee, so he isn’t. He isn’t. Never. 

Still.

Because anything might be the tipping point, right? Maybe even something as microscopic as the gift of a pumpkin coffee. Crowley imagines Aziraphale’s eyes clouding over with the realization of love- of fucking _love._ He imagines the angel getting it at last. Imagines his beautiful, clever brain figuring out the secret meaning of the bullshit pumpkin coffee. 

_Hello. I brought you this cinnamon gourd abomination because I love you. I didn’t even go to the shop nearest you. I’m late because I was in bed all morning looking up the best place to find this. I got it for you, because you fucking deserve it. I know it drives you crazy, but I will always be a bit late in pursuit of getting you what you deserve._

He imagines the latte sliding down Aziraphale’s throat like some kind of truth elixir. Not to steal Aziraphale’s secrets from him, no, just to gift him Crowley’s. Don’t make him say it. He can’t. It’s too big for his thin, crooked mouth, he chokes on the enormity of it.

He’s been sitting outside too long. He’s being weird. Aziraphale probably already knows he’s there, damn his angel magic. But Crowley can’t. He knows what the pumpkin coffee means, what every gesture means, and he has to… I don’t know, fuck… destroy the evidence? Can’t let Aziraphale read it in the lines of his stupid face. It’s okay if the angel discovers it in the whipped cream and the pumpkin pie spice. That’s okay. Crowley doesn’t know why it’s different, but it is. It’s okay. 

It’s okay, he would say to himself if he loved himself, but he doesn’t, he can’t. Isn’t that the sour truth of him? Unforgivable, unlovable. 

Those first days of autumn… that mingling of sharpness and softness, of something brittle and something unbearably cozy… Crowley clenches his eyes shut as he thinks it, but: Fall just tastes like being in love with Aziraphale. Of apples and promises. 

_I am in love with you,_ he thinks, always, forever. He wonders what it would sound like out loud. Would it be something smooth and confident in the easy truth of it, or would it tear out of him, bleeding and jagged?

He isn’t ready to go inside. He breathes dragon-like at the unlidded coffee (it looks prettier without the lid, okay?) to keep it warm and perfect. Tears sting his covered eyes. It just happens sometimes, it’s okay. It sneaks up on him, day, night, whenever. It sneaks up on him and curls strong fingers around his useless heart and _squeezes._

_It’s fine, angel. This hurt of being in love with you. I can bear it, I promise. You are every good thing. You did not ruin me. Don’t apologize. I wouldn’t do anything differently._

Which is what it always comes down to, really. Crowley grits his teeth hard. Aziraphale knows what he knows (Crowley is not subtle), but Crowley will do his, well, damnedest to reveal no more. He will not rob Aziraphale of his friend. He will be what Aziraphale needs and he will settle for sneaking his own fucking nonsense into overly sugared coffee. Should he have gotten a scone or something too? Fuck. 

Crowley focuses on a golden leaf on the asphalt outside and thinks ahead to Halloween. He allows himself the daydream of holiday-sanctioned playing pretend. Maybe he and Aziraphale could share some costume theme, could perform at being together, could link fingers without talking about it, because, I mean, it’s _what the characters would do._ He imagines a party. He imagines being surrounded by imaginary friends who love them both, who love them together, who support them and smile on them. He imagines sneaking away from this fantasy party and kissing candy out of Aziraphale’s mouth.

_Would it be different if we were human? If Halloween candy rotted my teeth and wrecked my mouth, would you want me? Would you let me kiss you with my decaying mouth and would we make plans together for days that make not even come? Could we be that brave, finally?_

Crowley strokes a rough thumb over the side of the paper coffee cup, easing a slight miracle into its contents. It will definitely be the best cup of stupid pumpkin coffee anyone’s ever tasted. How dare it even consider otherwise? Every mouthful will be perfectly balanced in cinnamon and nutmeg and whatever passes for fake pumpkin. The whipped cream will never melt. Aziraphale will notice, but he won’t mention it. 

Okay.

Okay.

Crowley slips out of the car, his grip forever steady on the coffee cup. He bounds triumphantly up to the door of the bookshop. He breathes a final comforting breath no one else should ever notice. 

Fall will come again. It always does.

_I will love you quietly, I promise. I will love you at exactly the volume of sweet pumpkin coffee and I will not ask for anything more. It’s good, angel. It’s good. We’re good._

Crowley pushes more carefully than usual through the front door. He doesn’t spill a single drop. He would never. 

“Crowley!” is the delightful refrain which sinks into a well-worn hole in the demon’s chest.

“Hey, angel. Brought you something. Nothing special.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, friends! I was sad this morning and needed to work through a little nonsense.


End file.
